To E. G., Dedicating A Book

    A broken tale of endless things,
    Take, lady: thou art not of those
    Who in what vale a fountain springs
    Would have its journey close.

    Countless beginnings, fair first parts,
    Leap to the light, and shining flow;
    All broken things, or toys or hearts,
    Are mended where they go.

    Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail,
    Float faithful fearless on, loved friend;
    'Tis God that has begun the tale
    And does not mean to end.

George MacDonald

George MacDonald (1824–1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels. He was a pioneer in the fantasy genre, influencing notable writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. His major works include "Phantastes" and "Lilith," as well as numerous poems and other literary works. MacDonald's writings are characterized by their imaginative qualities and deep spiritual insight.

George MacDonald

A Noonday Melody

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Coorse Cratur.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - A Song Of St. John Huss, Improved By Dr. Martin Luther. (Luther's Song-Book.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - The Hundred And Twenty-Eighth Psalm. (Luther's Song-Book.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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With A Copy Of "In Memoriam."

            TO E.M. II.

Dear friend, you love the poet's song,
    And here is one for your regard.
    You know the "melancholy bard,"
Whose grief is wise as well as strong;

Already something understand
    For whom he mourns and what he sings,
    And how he wakes with golden strings
The echoes of "the silent land;"

How, restless, faint, and worn with grief,
    Yet loving all and hoping all,
    He gazes where the shadows fall,
And finds in darkness some relief;

And how he sends his cries across,
    His cries for him that comes no more,
    Till one might think that silent shore
Full of the burden of his loss;

And how there comes sublimer cheer--
    Not darkness solacing sad eyes,
    Not the wild joy of mournf...

George MacDonald

My Heart

    I.

    Night, with her power to silence day,
        Filled up my lonely room,
    Quenching all sounds but one that lay
        Beyond her passing doom,
    Where in his shed a workman gay
        Went on despite the gloom.

    I listened, and I knew the sound,
        And the trade that he was plying;
    For backwards, forwards, bound on bound,
        A shuttle was flying, flying--
    Weaving ever--till, all unwound,
        The weft go out a sighing.


    II.

    As hidden in thy chamber lowest
        As in the sky the lark,
    Thou, mystic thing, on working goest
        Without the poorest spark,
    And yet light's garment round me throwest,
        Who else, as thou, were dark.

    With bod...

George MacDonald

A Prayer For The Past

    All sights and sounds of day and year,
    All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
    Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
    To talk to thee of them.

        Too great thy heart is to despise,
    Whose day girds centuries about;
    From things which we name small, thine eyes
    See great things looking out.

        Therefore the prayerful song I sing
    May come to thee in ordered words:
    Though lowly born, it needs not cling
    In terror to its chords.

        I think that nothing made is lost;
    That not a moon has ever shone,
    That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed
    But to my soul is gone.

        That all the lost years garnered lie
    In this thy casket, my dim soul;
    And thou wilt, once, th...

George MacDonald

At My Window After Sunset

    Heaven and the sea attend the dying day,
    And in their sadness overflow and blend--
    Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray:
    Far out amid them my pale soul I send.

    For, as they mingle, so mix life and death;
    An hour draws near when my day too will die;
    Already I forecast unheaving breath,
    Eviction on the moorland of yon sky.

    Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone,
    Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space!
    At board and hearth from this time forth unknown!
    Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face!

    Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea!
    Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky!
    Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee!
    I am not dead; I live, and cannot die!

George MacDonald

To A. J. Scott

    When, long ago, the daring of my youth
    Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing,
    Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth

    Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering,
    Made homely by the tenderness and grace
    Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling

    A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face
    From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray,
    Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.

    I see thee far before me on thy way
    Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still;
    Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,

    Upheld and ordered by a regnant will;
    Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate,
    Searching all truths its prophecy to fill;

    But this my joy: throned in thy hear...

George MacDonald

My Eyes Make Pictures.

"My eyes make pictures, when they are shut."
        COLERIDGE.


Fair morn, I bring my greeting
    To lofty skies, and pale,
Save where cloud-shreds are fleeting
    Before the driving gale,
The weary branches tossing,
    Careless of autumn's grief,
Shadow and sunlight crossing
    On each earth-spotted leaf.

I will escape their grieving;
    And so I close my eyes,
And see the light boat heaving
    Where the billows fall and rise;
I see the sunlight glancing
    Upon its silvery sail,
Where a youth's wild heart is dancing,
    And a maiden growing pale.

And I am quietly pacing
    The smooth stones o'er and o'er,
Where the merry waves are chasing
    Each other to the shore.
Words come to me while listen...

George MacDonald